


Living in Parallel

by holidayonthemoon



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Deus ex Maturin, Eddie Kaspbrak & Stanley Uris Are Dead, Everyone Is Alive, Fix-It, M/M, Not A Fix-It, Not Beta Read, On Hiatus, Playing with the Multiverse, The Turtle CAN Help Us (IT), both a fix-it and not a fix-it, but I’ve been informed that this reads well as a one-shot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:23:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22570156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holidayonthemoon/pseuds/holidayonthemoon
Summary: 'Richie lay back down on his not-bed and got under his not-covers. He wasn’t sure why he was compelled to do so, but it seemed right. “Alright, turtle-god-friend, let’s go.” He closed his eyes and felt a wave of pressure fold over him, and as he was pulled into some state of not-sleep, he hoped that the Richie there would get everything he wanted, and that the Richie here would remember to buy a new mattress.'
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 8
Kudos: 22





	Living in Parallel

Richie woke up to his 10:00 alarm. The first thing he noticed was how cold his room was. He squinted at the window and noticed it was cracked open, which was weird, but then he remembered waking up in the middle of the night, choking on a scream, then not being able to fall back to sleep because his room was hot as balls. His downstairs neighbors always cranked the heat up starting October first, and all that heat filtered up into his condo. In mid-fall, as it was, he did not care for it, but in the dead of winter in Chicago, he enjoyed low electric bills.

The second thing he noticed was the giant reptilian eyeball looking at him through the window, somehow recognizable and clear to him even without his glasses on.

“Ah!” he cried, leaping out of bed to grab the baseball bat he kept leaned up against his bedside table. The baseball bat was not a new addition to his bedroom. He had never been sure why he had always been compelled to keep one there, since he had never been burgled and did not like baseball. In the six weeks since getting back from Derry, however, he had a pretty good idea why he felt safer with it nearby while he slept. So much became clearer and almost sensical after he got back from Derry.

However, he could not follow that train of thought any longer, since there was a fucking giant-ass turtle thing staring at him through his 3rd story window.

The turtle blinked. Slowly.

“Uh,” he said. Words rarely failed Richie, but in this moment, he had none. Especially as he came fully into wakefulness and realized he wasn’t in his bedroom. Well, he wasn’t in his bedroom, but he also wasn’t not in his bedroom. That is, he was in a room that looked like his bedroom, but was not his bedroom. The room contained facsimiles of his things—his bed, side-table, dresser, posters on the walls. The doors were in the right spots, as were the windows. But everything was in sterile shades of grey and seemed to be constructed of perfect right angles.

Then Richie noticed he was not breathing. He gasped but he felt no air move into his lungs, yet somehow he still made sound? He put a finger to the pulse point in his neck and felt nothing.

“Holy shit, am I dead?”

NO

A voice rang out, coming from nowhere in particular, but Richie assumed it was the giant turtle. It was a good guess.

YOU ARE ALIVE, RICHIE, BUT YOU HAVE TAKEN THREE TIMES YOUR RECOMMENDED DOSE OF AMBIEN IN THE PAST 8 HOURS.

“Shit, fuck, how did I do that?” That was a lot of Ambien. He must have forgotten that he had taken any, then dosed himself again, then forgot about _that_ dose, then dosed himself a third time. Maybe because he washed the first one down with a vodka tonic or three. But who can say, really, and besides, now Richie was convening on the astral plane with the turtle who created the universe, and how did Richie know with such certainty that this turtle created the universe? Weird.

Richie had been possessed by the Ambien Walrus before, but up until now, the strangest thing he had done while on Ambien was go to the convenience store down the street and buy out their stock of sunglasses and chewing gum before going back home and peeing in his refrigerator. Richie had been a lot more careful about mixing prescriptions with alcohol after that particular incident, but that was a different time, a simpler time, when his inability to sleep came from run-of-the-mill insomnia and generalized anxiety, instead of actual PTSD.

“Is this, am I dying?” As much as he had disliked being alive the past month and a half, he didn’t want to die, and he was becoming more sure of that by the second, even considering how heavily he had been sedating himself with weed, alcohol, and apparently Ambien in order to feel as not alive as possible. Shit. Bev was going to be so pissed at him if he died in such a stupid way after surviving clown-pocalypse 2016.

YOU ARE NOT DYING, THOUGH YOU ARE NOT FAR OFF. BUT THAT IS WHY I COULD BRING YOU HERE AND SPEAK TO YOU. RICHIE, YOU AND YOUR FRIENDS DID ME A GREAT SERVICE IN DESTROYING MY BROTHER. IN ALL UNIVERSES YOU WERE SUCCESSFUL, BUT IN NO UNIVERSE DID ALL OF YOU SURVIVE THE FIGHT. THERE WERE FOUR POSSIBLE OUTCOMES TO THE BATTLE. I AM NOT STRONG ENOUGH TO FIX THEM ALL, BUT IF YOU AGREE TO MY OFFER, I CAN MAKE IT SO THAT IN ONE UNIVERSE, YOU CAN ALL BE TOGETHER.

“Yeah, oh yeah, definitely, whatever it is, I don’t care, obviously yes.” Richie dropped the baseball bat on the floor and his knees gave out on him a little, but he was caught by his bed, which seemed to have a new pillow-top mattress. It was really nice, unlike his current mattress, which was around 10 years old and was not IKEA’s nicest option. Maybe if he really wasn’t dying and this wasn’t a vision that would carry him into the afterlife, he would upgrade.

I ASSURE YOU, RICHIE, YOU WILL NOT DIE TODAY. ARE YOU SURE YOU WISH TO PROCEED WHEN YOU DO NOT YET KNOW THE TERMS?

Richie sagged. “Well, I guess so? I guess I should know what I’m getting myself into, but I don’t know, man, I’d do anything to bring Stan and, and—” Richie swallowed, coughed a little.

EDDIE.

“Yeah, exactly, thanks,” he managed to choke out. Ugh, he still couldn’t even say his name out loud. He was such a pathetic sap.

BUT YOU HAVE A CHOICE IN THE MATTER. THERE IS A UNIVERSE IN WHICH YOU ARE THE ONLY ONE NOT TO SURVIVE. I CAN SEND YOU THERE—

“Wait, I died there? So I’d just show up after being dead for six weeks? Do I get a new body, or do I come back like a zombie? Or a ghost?”

IF YOU WOULD ALLOW ME TO FINISH—

“Yes, sorry, go ahead.” He mimed zipping his lips and throwing away the key. But then he wondered—

PLEASE.

Richie clenched his jaw and nodded, gesturing at the great floating turtle to continue.

THERE IS ONE UNIVERSE WHERE YOU ARE THE ONLY ONE NOT TO SURVIVE. I CAN SEND YOU THERE, BUT YOU HAVE A CHOICE IN WHAT HAPPENS TO YOU HERE. I CAN SEND YOU FULLY AND WHOLLY TO THE OTHER UNIVERSE, WHERE YOU DIED UNDERNEATH NEIBOLT HOUSE, AND YOU WILL DISAPPEAR HERE LEAVING NO TRACE. OR I CAN MAKE A COPY OF YOUR CONSCIOUSNESS, REPAIR THAT BODY, AND TWO VERSIONS OF YOU WILL EXIST TO GO ON YOUR OWN PATHS.

Richie took a moment to let it all sink in. Okay, that was a lot tougher a choice that he had thought. It was tempting to just jump ship, leave this world in which his relationship with the love of his life would never be consummated, emotionally or otherwise. Admittedly, at the time, he had wanted to stay there with Eddie, down in the sewers. It seemed a lot crazier now, but in the moment, he couldn’t make himself believe that Eddie was gone so soon after just getting him back. But Eddie wasn’t gone somewhere else, and there was the possibility that Richie would never again have to think about Eddie, cold and alone in the dark and dirt, stuck in Derry forever and ever and ever.

Richie closed his eyes and shook that thought out of his head. Because if Richie took that deal, and didn’t leave himself behind, he _would_ be dead here, and his new-found old friends would think he had OD’d on Ambien like an amateur sleeping-pill user and walked off in the middle of the night, never to return. They would think he had been doing worse than he actually was, which was still bad but not deliberate suicide-bad. He hated the idea of the Losers wondering if there had been signs that they had missed or thinking that they could have saved him if only something, something, etc.

And he had just talked to Bev the other day, and they had made plans to skype while watching _They Live_ on Sunday, because she still hadn’t seen any John Carpenter movies, which was a travesty. And he wrote a couple jokes yesterday that he thought might be good enough to bring to an open mic. The new stuff was dark as fuck, but funny. Maybe too dark—he’d have to workshop them with the Losers before putting them in public. Oh, shit, and it was his turn next for Mike Week, and he was supposed to bring Mike to see the Bean, and they all were coming to come to the alumni showcase next month at Second City that Richie had never gotten around to bailing on.

Well, he supposed he had his answer.

GOOD. I’M GLAD. THE OTHERS WOULD HAVE MISSED YOU TERRIBLY, THOUGH THEY WOULD HAVE UNDERSTOOD, SHOULD YOU HAVE BEEN ABLE TO EXPLAIN YOURSELF.

Richie snorted through his nose. “Have you not met Bill? He would never have forgiven me.”

THAT IS PROBABLY TRUE.

Richie lay back down on his not-bed and got under his not-covers. He wasn’t sure why he was compelled to do so, but it seemed right. “Alright, turtle-god-friend, let’s go.” He closed his eyes and felt a wave of pressure fold over him, and as he was pulled into some state of not-sleep, he hoped that the Richie there would get everything he wanted, and that the Richie here would remember to buy a new mattress.

*

Richie woke up in a puddle of wet to the sun in his face and something else poking at his face, which turned out to be a big black bird trying to steal his glasses.

“Fuck off, crow, I need those!” he barely managed to cough out. His voice felt dry and unused. Richie swatted at the bird and sunk further into the mud. The crow flew into a low branch of a nearby tree and peered down at Richie where he lay, wet and muddy and cold, covered in dirt and leaves and other detritus. He was itchy all over and his mouth tasted terrible. He felt extremely literally like gutter trash. The crow cawed at him and flew deeper into the woods. “Yeah, fly, bitch.”

Richie rolled up to sit, elbows on his knees, and considered his situation. First of all, he was definitely in the Barrens, and judging by the chill in the air and the color of the leaves on the trees, it was October, just like it was yesterday back in Chicago. The turtle had come through. Richie smiled, feeling something like optimism, feeling alive, to use a cliché. Unfortunately, he felt pretty dead on the outside. He smelled dead. But how he felt on the inside made up for it.

Somehow, and by “somehow” he meant “in a celestial-turtley way,” he had been washed out of the sewers to here. Why he couldn’t have been washed into a bed at the Townhouse was anyone’s guess, but he wasn’t going to look a gift turtle in the mouth. He figured he would head there first, and with luck or some more heavenly intervention, some of his stuff might still be there. Barring that, he would go to the library and try to connect with the Losers on Facebook or something. Someone at the library would probably would know how to get in touch with Mikey, though he was probably long gone. Hopefully he was still palling around with the Losers in this universe and hadn’t already moved on to _Mike-cation 2: Thai-d up in Vietnam_.

The walk to the Townhouse was no fun and cold as fuck but shorter than he remembered, and he didn’t see anyone on the way, so there was no one to call the cops on the suspicious reanimated corpse that was suspiciously strolling around town. The streets were empty apart from an giant old 60s Chevrolet in forest green that rolled slowly past him down the street. He couldn’t make out the driver of the vehicle. Suspicious indeed.

He walked into the lobby of the Townhouse, his shoes squelching on the floor and leaving big wet footprints behind him. He felt kind of bad because the hardwood was in nice shape and he didn’t want to damage the floors, but then he remembered that he was in Derry, so this hotel and its hardwood floors could all go fuck themselves.

“Can I help you?” The woman behind the front desk asked him as he walked up to the counter. He couldn’t recall anyone working here last time he was here, but maybe they had been extremely understaffed. She had a round face and a fancy looking manicure that she must have gotten somewhere else, and her pleasant smile looked as fake as her nails. Her name-tag said “Melanie.”

“Why yes you can.” She coughed a little and her smile lost some of its pleasantness. He backed up a bit so she wouldn’t have to smell his breath while they talked. “My name is Richie Tozier, and I was wondering--”

“Oh, Mr. Tozier, yes. I have a note here saying you would be returning today.” Interesting. “All your things should still be in your room as you left them.” Extremely interesting. “Let me know there’s anything else you need.” She turned away and grabbed a key from the back wall. “Here you go. Room 203.” She slid the key across the counter towards Richie. Richie had a thought.

“As far as payments go, do I owe anything?”

“One moment.” She clickety-clacked on the computer. “You are squared up, Mr. Tozier. The card we have on file ends in 8008. Is that the card you want to use?” That was not his card, but it was proof that he and the turtle shared a sense of humor. He chuckled. Boob.

“Yeah, that works. Thanks.” He took the key and turned to walk up to his room.

Melanie sniffed. “Let me know if you need any more towels, Mr. Tozier. Dial 0 to get the front desk.” Rude. Not that he blamed her.

“Will do,” he said and gave her a thumbs up and an exaggerated wink, then turned and walked up the stairs.

When he got to his room, he saw that all his stuff was present and accounted for, exactly how he left it, and somehow free of the 6-weeks’ worth of dust that should have settled on everything. Turtle-gods knew how to get shit done and were extremely thorough while doing it, apparently.

He grabbed his fully-charged iPhone and saw he had about a million notifications, so he set it down to deal with later. After a shower. A long shower. A long hot shower where he would just enjoy being warm and clean and avoid thinking about what came next, since this was all going way more easily than he had imagined thanks to _Deus ex Maturin,_ and what he had to do next was going to need some finesse that had to come from him.

Wait. Maturin? Was that the turtle’s name? Wild.

After degriming himself and flossing more thoroughly than he ever had before, Richie stepped out of the bathroom with his towel around his waist. There was a full-length mirror on the door, and he stood in front of it to take stock of himself. His hair looked the same as it had yesterday, maybe a little shorter. He had gotten a haircut the week before coming to Derry, and it made sense that it wouldn’t have grown at all while he was dead. Weren’t hair and fingernails supposed to grow for like, two weeks after you died, though? He looked at his fingernails. They looked bitten down with rough cuticles, per usual. Either that was an old-wive’s tale, or Maturin was not a great esthetician.

His body looked normal too. No new scars. Same old moles. Same beer gut that by all rights should have been much larger than it was. Still pale. Still lanky. Still vaguely tired-looking. How did he die down there? What happened? There was no evidence that he had been injured, let alone killed. His right knee was still a bit arthritic and his left knee was still fine. Would have been nice of Maturin to fix that too but whatever. Weird, weird, weird.

His phone buzzed. Well, time to see what faced him in the rest of the world. He grabbed his phone, unplugged it, and laid back on the bed, letting go of his towel. His most recent notifications were texts from both Stan and Eddie to the Losers Club group chat.

Edward Spaghetti, Esq.: Ca-caw, motherfucker.

Stan the Man: Don’t ca-caw at me. Besides, cockfighting is illegal in all 50 states.

He stared at his phone. What the fuck were they talking about? Despite having no insight into the context of their messages, a couple dozen follow-up jokes came to his mind, tailor-made to insight hissy fits from Stan, Eddie, or both. Wild how the muscle-memory was still there after all this time. His fingers itched to type out something along the lines of, “Yeah I got arrested last time I went to the cockfight at your mom’s house. Neighbors called in a noise complaint from all the screeching and moaning,” and it would be so stupid and awful to reveal himself this way, but this was also about him and he thought it would be really funny, but before he could start typing, he started crying like, just weeping these big wet sobs like he hadn’t in, well not that long. About six weeks, give or take.

This was not the first time Richie had found himself damp, naked, and crying in the fetal position, and he was sure it would not be the last. At least this was under better circumstances than usual. He was in a nice warm room, freshly showered, and all six of his best friends were alive and actively present in his life. Holy fucking shit. They were so close. All across the country and here in the palm of his hand. They didn’t know that, but that would change soon enough. It was pretty crazy how relief and joy could make a person weep so profusely. He clutched the phone close to his chest and smiled and laughed and cried. He felt insane. He felt good.

Richie now understood just how sad he had been. Poor other-Richie, who probably still had no idea how sad he was. Shit, seriously, though. He had been really fucking miserable. He had been pretty sad in the in-between years, too, if he was being honest with himself. On the road constantly. No significant relationships to speak of. Still three-quarters of the way in the closet. A few decent friends and a decent manager and a decent writing team—he somehow attracted decent people—but no one like the Losers. Those bonds were forged in literal blood and when you’ve had that, what can possibly compare, even if you don’t remember?

His life had been fine, but without the Losers, without his memories of being brave and being loved and loving so fiercely in return, there was no chance of it being better than fine. On the other hand, there was no chance of life being any worse than fine, either. Life had been bland and lacked depth. He’d had no idea what he was missing. That had been his problem from the day he left Derry up until this morning, but that was other-Richie’s problem now.

Richie groaned as he got up and went to the sink to get himself a glass of water. He was pretty well cried out at this point. He was tempted to go down to the bar and get a drink but he thought better of it. Just what he needed was to get drunk and lose all sense of propriety and facetime the Losers and immediately start in with a Pennywise Voice: “Hello, Losers! Did you miss me?” He shivered. “Ugh, beep beep, Richie,” he said to himself. Why did he ever think that could add any levity to any situation? For a stand-up, he sure could misread a room. Even so, he made a mental note to revisit the idea in 27 years.

Richie got into his sweatpants and a worn-out T-shirt and turned out all the lights apart from the bedside lamp. He had only been awake for about five hours but he was suddenly exhausted. Resurrections were exhausting. There was a bit in there somewhere: resurrections, erections, something. Okay that was bad. He needed to eat something and go to bed.

That’s what he would do. He would charge room-service to Maturin’s credit card, go to sleep, and in the morning, he would return his car and fly to New York. He would go to Bev’s place, even though she was in third place in terms of how much work it was going to be to convince her that he was really himself, because she was the least likely to attack him on sight, even if she thought he might be IT. Then Bev would help him tell the other Losers he was back, since some of them were bound to think he was IT even without doing the Voice, but they would all believe Bev. Easy enough.

Later, when he was eating dinner and watching _30 Rock_ on his laptop, he wondered what the other him was doing. What would he have done, if he had been the one to wake up in his old life? He had no idea.

*

Richie woke up to his 10:00 alarm. He sniffed heavily, then let out a long moan. Or was it a groan. Somewhere between a moan and a groan. 50% moan, 50% groan, 100% miserable wreck. His face was in a cold puddle of wet that seemed to be drool rather than vomit so that was something. The sun came in sharp and bright through his window, and he could hear birds taunting him outside. It was October; shouldn’t those fuckers have gone south by now?

If Richie had known how terrible he was going to feel the next morning, he might have made a different choice as to whether he would continue to exist in this universe. He felt like liquid garbage, decaying from the inside out, and not all of that was the hangover. Fucking Ambien. Fucking turtles.

Richie was certain that everything he had seen in that dream had been real. He was sure of it. He hoped Richie there felt better than he did here, but if he remembered correctly, that Richie was going to be a reanimated corpse so who fucking knew. This was too much to deal with. How was he supposed to go on with his life knowing there was a version of himself that got everything he ever wanted? What the fuck had he been thinking? He rolled over onto his back, and the world kept spinning around him, so he kept turning and leaned off the bed to vomit in the wastebasket.

His relief was palpable when looked up and saw a glass of water and two tablets of Aleve on the side table. He didn’t remember doing that last night. Maybe he had been more cogent than he remembered, except he didn’t really remember anything from last night, so. He took a drink and kept the water down fine, so he sent the pills down too. His phone was lying unplugged next to the bed. He grabbed it, expecting it to be dead, but it was fully charged. His most recent notification was a text containing just the turtle emoji from 531-8008. Ha. Boobies. At least the turtle hadn’t left Richie entirely in the weeds.

Richie closed his eyes and willed himself to go back to sleep for the rest of his life, but his phone buzzed multiple times in succession, which happened frequently enough, but his curiosity was piqued. It was a bunch of texts from Bev and Ben to the Losers group chat. They were arguing about who was the better cook. Bev thought Ben was better, since he could make pasta from scratch, but Ben thought Bev was better since she could make real souffle. Richie couldn’t tell if this new urge to vomit was from the continued hangover or the rancid wholesomeness of the exchange. Probably both. He dialed Bev’s number, and she answered after the first ring. “Yes?”

“Beverly, you know for a fact you are the better cook.” Both Bev and Ben were equally okay at cooking, if the housewarming party they had thrown two weeks ago at Bev’s new place in Chelsea was anything to go by. “Ben ruined that appetizer with the bacon, remember? Tell Ben he’s right.”

“You’re wrong, but thank you. You were pretty wasted by that point, but I think I told you at the party--”

“Bev, I fucked up.” Well, he had been planning to work up to this, but he was already full-tilt in his feelings, so there was nothing for it.

“Richie, are you okay? What happened?” When she was worried, Bev had a cinnamon-sugar way of speaking that was sweet without being cloying and always made Richie want to open up to her, even about the really shitty stuff. Richie sighed long and low. Not quite the moan-groan combo from earlier but not dissimilar.

“Okay. I’m okay. I’m not—it was an accident.” How did he want to say this?

“Rich. Please just tell me the truth. Are you okay?” Well, he was sort-of-okay: he wasn’t so not okay that he was worried about what happened last night happening again, but that had been an accident, so in his current state, he might not be able to control whether it happened again, and that definitely was not okay, so the final verdict was that he was not okay.

“Yeah, I’m okay. I feel like shit but I’ll be fine.” He sighed. He wanted her to know but did not want to tell her. “I only _accidentally_ poisoned myself a little bit. Just alcohol and, um, too much Ambien”

He could hear Bev suck in a breath on the other end of the line. “That was dumb. I’m glad you’re alright. What brought that on? You seemed fine at the party. Did something happen?”

“No, no, I just couldn’t sleep. And I’d had a couple drinks when I took my dose and I must have forgotten. It was stupid.”

“Yeah. Rich--”

“I just.” He cut her off. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine her in front of him, but the teenage version of her, the one he told all his secrets. “I just miss him. I miss both of them, but—I don’t know why this is so hard.” He had hoped everything he wanted to say would spill out of him but he couldn’t find any more words. That was happening to him a lot lately. He felt weird and empty and tired.

“Give me your address again.” He gave it to her. “Okay, here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to order you some food. You’re going to take a shower and put on Netflix—watch something you like but has been made in the past five years. Nothing nostalgic. I’m going to call Mike—”

“No, Bev don’t do that. He’s going to be here next week, I can wait.” Except now that she had put the idea in his head, he did want Mike to come early. He really didn’t want to be alone right now.

“Nope. He is in St. Louis, and you know that if we tell him you need him, he’ll be there by this afternoon. And don’t clean your apartment. I’m sure it’s a disaster, but Mike will help you when he gets there.” It was, in fact, a disaster.

“Oh, Bev, it’s like you know me, or something.” He was tearing up from the relief of someone else telling him how to deal with his bullshit and that he wouldn’t be alone in his drab-ass apartment for much longer. And he felt more cared-for than he had in a long time, like whenever he was sick as a kid, and his mom would put sheets on the sofa in the living room and let him lie there all day watching cartoons, and she would give him ginger ale and broth and run her fingers through his hair when she checked his temperature.

“Damn straight. Now make yourself some coffee and get your wallowing out of your system, because you know Mikey is going to want to go do all that tourist garbage as soon as he gets there.” That was something he could do: cry intermittently while watching various favorite single-camera comedies and picking out which place to take Mike out for Chicago-style pizza. Should he do Pequod’s or Giordano’s? Wait, was he out of his mind? Pequod’s one-hundred percent.

“Oh, god, Bev, I’ve lived here so long now I don’t know what’s interesting about Chicago besides pizza and the Bean? Is the Bean still interesting? If you don’t know, I bet Ben would. Ask Ben if the Bean is still interesting.” Richie heard her put down the phone and a bit of shouting back and forth.

“Ben says that the Bean is interesting, if only because it is an iconic public sculpture made by a guy who is a huge asshole? So, if you and Mike need a conversation starter, separating the art from the artist? Just a suggestion.” Oh, absolutely no way would they be talking about that.

“I was just going to point out to him that it kinda looks like a big shiny butt, but we could get more philosophical. Anyway, if I am allowed to provide input, please get me Indian food.”

“You got it, booboo. Love you.” She sure did, didn’t she.

“Love you, too, Bev. Oh, and I want garlic naan, please.”

“Sure thing, Rich. I’ll call you later this week, okay?”

“Okay, bye, Bev. And mango lassi!”

She hung up. Well, then. Time to wallow while he waited for his lunch. He got out of bed and walked out to the living room, which was cluttered as all fuck and really needed to be vacuumed. He had taken the comforter from his bed with him, and he spread it out on the couch after pushing the mail and books and errant trash that were there onto the floor. Sorry, Mikey.

Richie spent the next five hours dozing, watching _30 Rock,_ crying, picking at the food Bev sent, making espressos that he only half-finished, and reading _Crime and Punishment_ for the tenth-ish time. It was one of those books that never failed to make Richie feel better about himself and his life by comparison, but still roused empathy for the sad sack that was Raskolnikov. Plus, if he could feel compassion for someone who was a shittier person than him, he could maybe feel compassion for himself? Richie had just gotten to the part where Raskolnikov steals the axe to go kill the pawn-broker lady when he heard the apartment buzzer go off. He got up to answer the call, keeping the blanket around his shoulders.

“’Allo, oo eez eet?” he said in his Angry French Guy Voice into the intercom.

“Oh, sorry, I must have buzzed the wrong apartment,” he heard Mike say. Richie was taken aback that Mike didn’t immediately assume that it was Richie, but maybe Mike was just playing along.

“Learn to read, you American pig-dog!” Okay, that was just the French Soldier from _Monty Python and the Holy Grail._ Twenty seconds later, the buzzer went off again. “If this is Jimmy, I’m not here,” California Stoner Guy said. “I told you, Jimmy, I never want to see you again. You fucked me over for the last time, dude.”

“Sorry, I—oh goddammit, Richie.” Richie snorted and hit the button to buzz Mike in. Richie was there to open the door as soon as Mike knocked. “Well, you can’t be that bad off if you’re fucking with me before I’m even through the door. Your Voices have gotten a lot more convincing, by the way,” Mike said as he put down his bags, then went in for a very thorough hug. Richie could not get over how tall and broad Mike was now. Richie was tall and broad, too, but he was wirier. Mike was even taller than Richie was, but he was jacked. Being held by someone bigger than him was kind of heady. Also, Mike looked just like the Old Spice Guy, which wasn’t traditionally Richie’s type but he could still appreciate.

“When Bev called, I was worried you—” Mike pulled away to look at Richie, but kept his hands on his shoulders, and looked Richie up and down. Then he looked past Richie into the living room. “Okay, yeah, everything in here looks like shit, including you, honestly.” He looked down. “Is that _Crime and Punishment_? Are you reading that to feel better or worse?”  
  
“Better, if you can believe it.”

“Ha. It’s not too on the nose?”

“No, no, you see, when I murder people with axes, it’s only ever to save your life, Micycle, and never out of a need to express my moral superiority.” Mike smiled and pulled Richie into his chest for another hug.

“Oh, Richie, you do not smell good.” Richie laughed into Mike’s neck. “Go take a shower while I pick up in here.” Mike let go of Richie completely and shoved him a little, grabbing the comforter from him. “Is there any food left? Bev said she got enough for me, too.”

“There is not, but in my defense, there was not enough for two people of our stature. Two Bev-sized people, maybe.” Richie realized that today was the first day he’d had an appetite since leaving New York after the housewarming party and that he hadn’t really noticed how much he had been eating. The rich, spicy curry had joined forces with the Aleve from earlier and had extinguished his hangover. And now Mike was here! “I’ve got some menus stuck up on the fridge if you want to call in for delivery. I could probably eat again soon, anyway.”

“Cool, I’ll take a look.” Mike surveyed the living room. “Where are your cleaning supplies? You do have cleaning supplies?”

Richie rolled his eyes. He may have stopped mentally developing at thirteen in a lot of ways, but he wasn’t an actual muppet. “I’m a grown man, Mikey. Of course I do. That closet.” He pointed. “Vacuum is in there too. I want this place spotless by the time I’m out of the shower, got it?” Mikey gave him a look. “Or, I’ll be quick and I’ll help as soon as I’m done _and_ dinner’s on me?” Mike smiled in that odd, serene way of his and turned and walked towards the closet.

Richie grabbed some fresh sweats and a t-shirt from his room, then went into the bathroom and took a much longer shower than he had anticipated taking. He was pretty greasy after all. But he knew that when he and Mike were done cleaning and eating and doing tourist stuff or whatever that Mike was going to want to talk, so even though he didn’t need to wash his hair a second time or wait a whole three minutes before rinsing out his conditioner, he did it anyway. And shaving could have waited until the morning, but he did that anyway too. And he certainly didn’t have to exfoliate or pluck his eyebrows or try out all the other stuff in the grooming kit his mom had gotten him last Christmas that he had never opened, but he did that, too. He considered shaving his legs—no, that would be too much.

Richie stared at himself in the foggy mirror. He looked better than he had in a while, but he still looked tired and a bit gaunt. It had more to do with the way he was holding his head and the curve of his shoulders. Existentially fatigued. No wonder he’d been so into rereading all the Dostoevsky in his library the past few weeks. “I am a sick man. I am a spiteful man. I am an unattractive man.” He made a face at himself in the mirror.

He got dressed and left the bathroom and entered a much cleaner space than he had left. “Holy shit, Mikey. You really went to town.”

“And you took a two-hour shower,” Mike said from across the room, where he was putting books back on the bookshelf. He turned to look at Richie and squinted at him. “Did you give yourself a facial? Your eyebrows are on fleek.”

What the fuck did Mike just say? “What the fuck did you just say?”

“Your eyebrows. They’re on fleek.” Mike turned away and went back to shelving books, being awfully particular about what went where.

“Yes, I heard you, but I don’t know what that means. Mike. You need to explain it to me. Did I over-do it? Are they too thin? Are they shaped funny? On fleek—Does that mean they are on the fleek? Am I the fleek? Who am I, Mike? Am I fleek?”

“It’s how kids these days say something looks good, Richie, or at least I think they still do.” Richie was impressed that Mike was still cataloging his collection of Russian masters onto a shelf of their own without getting distracted by Richie running his mouth. “Also, I have to say, your book collection has a quite a depth to it.”

“Well, don’t be too impressed. Half of them I’ve read multiple times and the other half I’ve never started on.” Richie flopped down onto the couch and put his feet up on the armrest. “Example, the Dostoevsky gets a ton of airtime, but I’ve never started on any of the Pushkin, and I’ve probably started _Anna Karenina_ thirty times and haven’t even gotten a quarter of the way through.”

Mike finished and stood up. “That’s fair. I have to admit, I’m not the most well-read librarian out there, when it comes the classics. I like experimental lit, though. I go back about as far as Woolf, oh, but speaking of classics,” Mike said, then rushed off to his bags, which were still sitting by the front door, “I have this for you.” He brought back with him an old shoebox. He sat in the empty spot on the couch near Richie’s head and sat the shoebox on his lap. “Back in 2010, after your dad retired, I helped your parents pack up the house for the move to Santa Fe. They called you and asked if you wanted anything from your old room, and you said that they could just throw everything out, but I went through and looked for stuff you might have wanted to keep, if you had remembered, and I found this.”

Richie sat up and slid next to Mike. He took the shoebox and put it on his own lap. “Holy shit, Mikey.” Richie knew exactly what this was. By the time he, Stan, and Mike were eighteen and the last ones still in Derry, they had figured out that when a Loser left, all their memories of each other faded away to nothing. Before he went off to college, Richie put away all his most treasured items for safekeeping and left them at home with his parents, lest he forget why they were important and throw them away.

Richie opened the box. On the top were some comic books, some movie ticket stubs, a few notebooks, and his old Walkman with a tape still inside. He was pretty sure he knew what tape it was and who had made it for him, but under no circumstance was he going to open it and find out right now. The bottom of the box was full of Polaroids that he knew were from his 14th birthday party, the last time all seven Losers were together before they were reunited six weeks ago.

He had had a sleepover and his parents had even let Bev stay overnight, after they found out she would be moving to live with her aunt in Portland just a few weeks later. She had been staying with Ben and his mom in an unofficial capacity, but as her closest living relative, her aunt had been granted custody and was willing to take her in. Bev liked her aunt Linda, her mother’s sister, even though she didn’t know her very well, so the Losers were all sort of happy for her, but also really sad.

Richie had been given the camera earlier that day, a present from his mom and dad. The Losers went through ten packs of film posing like superheroes and supermodels and making lewd gestures and funny faces. There was one where they were lying on their backs, heads in a circle. His dad had taken that one. He had even stood on a chair so that all their faces would be in the frame.

There was one of just him and Eddie, taken pretty close up, their arms wrapped around each other’s necks, faces pressed together. They were grinning at the camera. Richie remembered taking that one, because right after it was taken, he had licked Eddie’s face from his ear to his forehead. Eddie had screamed at him in disgust but didn’t go to the bathroom to wash off the spit and just wiped it off with his hand. Then Eddie had tried to wipe his spit-covered hand on Richie’s face and Richie ran away, Eddie trailing close behind him.

Richie had run outside into the backyard, and he tripped on a tree root and skinned his knee. Eddie was ready with his first-aid fanny pack, which he usually didn’t wear anymore, but he still brought it along sometimes. Eddie had cleaned Richie’s knee with a wipe and bandaged him up. After he was done, Richie looked up at him and said, “My hero,” and Eddie had blushed bright red and called him a big idiot and told him to be more careful and stomped all the way back into the house, and that might have been the happiest Richie had ever been.

In the midst of recalling this memory, Richie had started quietly weeping and his head had somehow ended up in Mike’s lap, his fingers carding through Richie’s hair, Richie holding the stack of photos tight to his chest.

“I’ve never loved anyone like I loved him, Mikey,” he said through his tears.

Mike’s hand stilled on top of Richie’s head. “Yeah, I kind of wondered. Even then, I wondered.”

Richie turned his body so he was fully lying on his back, head still in Mike’s lap, and looked up at him. He sniffed. “Even then? And you never said anything?”

“Well, I think I tried to bring it up a few times, actually, but you are really good at changing the subject.” Mike looked down at him. “Especially, well, it would have been nice to talk about, um, that kind of thing with someone who understood.”

Richie froze. He sort of remembered what Mike was talking about. One time specifically, before senior prom. Derry High had a rule that only couples could go to prom, no singles allowed, and neither Mike nor Richie knew what girls they could ask who would go with them. Mike said it was too bad that they couldn’t just go together as a couple, and Richie had responded that it was too bad Eddie had moved away sophomore year because he would have asked Sonia to be his date, which, Jesus H. Fucking Christ.

Richie sat up and gave Mike a long look. “So. You’re?”

“Bi,” Mike said, with a soft smile. Richie put his face in his hands and groaned. Today was a day for groaning, apparently. So much of his life would have been so much easier if he hadn’t been such a chickenshit coward. Also, how had he not noticed? “I’m kind of surprised no one noticed me pining after Big Bill, but I suppose everyone pined after Big Bill in their own way.”

“You were in love with Bill? Are you still? Mike, if you’re in love with him, you have to tell him, like, now, right now!” Richie stood up. “Where’s my phone. We can call him.”

“Richie.” Mike looked up at him, a soft, sad smile playing on his face. “That was twenty-five years ago. I loved him, he was my friend, and I had a crush on him, but I didn’t know him that long before he moved away, only a few years, right? And when I saw all of you again for the first time, it was like a regular reunion for me, at least at first.” Mike huffed out a laugh. “I remembered a lot of things I thought I had forgotten, but my memories I have of us being kids together—when I talk to you guys, half the time I don’t even remember what you’re talking about, or I only sort of remember, but not clearly. I don’t think it’s the same for me as it is for you.”

Richie sat on the floor and leaned one arm on the coffee table, resting his head on his hand. That made sense. Mike had had 25 years to just live his life and remember and forget his childhood the way most people remembered and forgot their childhood. “Yeah, for me, it’s like, the years between leaving Derry and coming back are one dull blur. But I feel like I was a kid just yesterday. You know, I don’t think I called my parents once while they still lived in Derry? They would always call me, and I’d always feel like, great, here are these people I’m obligated to talk to for some reason. But as soon as they moved to Santa Fe, I started talking to them for real again. And I could remember what we talked about. And now, I remember everything, and I’m like, holy shit I love them so much.

“And I’ve thought this whole time that maybe I’m, like, romance and shit isn’t something that’s for me. And I just stayed in the closet because, yeah, I was afraid, but I also wanted to have a career and passing as straight is pretty easy, I mean, look at me, and it didn’t bug me that much because it was easy.” Richie covered his eyes with his hands because he was fucking crying again, but he had to keep going. “But now I remember being nine and making Eddie laugh for the first time and wanting him to pay attention to me all the time, and him getting into the hammock with me that summer and just feeling like I was on fire, and the day he moved away and we exchanged mix tapes, and I remember listening to his over and over, reading into the lyrics of every song way too much, and when he never called or mailed or anything, I assumed that he had figured out how I felt about him and that I ruined it and he was never going to talk to me again, and remembering feels like living it all again and it hurts so bad. I’ve got all these feelings and they don’t have anywhere to go.

“And Mike, I’ve got to tell you something else, but you have to promise you’ll believe me.” He looked at Mike through wet eyes and Mike nodded. Richie told him about the vision he’d had the night before, about the turtle, which apparently was named Maturin, though he didn’t know how he knew that, and the choice he’d been given, and how there was a version of him out there somewhere who had a shot at getting the life he wanted when he was thirteen. Or if Eddie didn’t feel the same way, he would at least maybe get to move on like a normal person, and that would suck but it would suck less than this.

Richie finished his story and laid down on the floor. Then he got up and grabbed his comforter from the couch where Mike had put it after folding it up and wrapped himself up in it then laid back down on the floor. He wasn’t crying anymore, but probably only because he was dehydrated. “Mikey, could you get me a glass of water, please?”

Mike nodded and got up and came back with a mason jar full of orange liquid. “I put an Emergen-C in it. Electrolytes.”

“Good call. Thanks, Mikey.” He sat up and took a long drink. Richie felt weird. “So.”

“So,” Mike replied. “Maturin is real, then? That’s cool. I’ve only read about him before, but it’s nice to get confirmation.”  
  
“Nice, huh?” Richie said.

“Sorry.” Mike said.

Richie sighed. “No, it’s okay. I’m glad I’m not the first person to meet the guy.” They sat in silence for a few minutes. “Hey, Mikey.”  
  
“Yeah, Rich?”

“So you had me figured out, but do you think Eddie, you know, liked me back? At all?”

Mike slid off the couch to sit next to Richie on the floor. “I’m not saying this to make you feel better, but honestly, yeah, I think so. He was pretty, you know—I remember watching movies with him when we were sixteen and he’d still get grossed out by kissing scenes, so I don’t know. Late bloomer? But the two of you, that was something special.”

“I’m not sure if that makes me feel better, actually. Doesn’t make me feel worse, though, so.”

Mikey sighed. “Well, in my experience, the feeling, it fucking sucks, and then it starts sucking less, and eventually the memories of the good parts are stronger than how much you miss them, then one day nostalgia sets in and everything becomes bearable, and then that’s your life.”

“I thought you said it was just a crush.”

“I was talking about all you guys.” Well, fuck.

Richie sat up and pulled Mike into an embrace. Mike sniffled against his neck. Now this did make Richie feel better—not that Mike was suffering, too, but that neither of them was alone in this weird space they had found themselves in.

Then Mike’s stomach grumbled. Loudly.

Richie pulled away. “Shit, sorry, Mikey. Jesus, have you eaten at all today?” He stood up and wiped his face with his shirt. “Okay, let’s rally. I’m gonna get dressed and then we’ll walk to Pequod’s for pizza. Chicago-style, baby. Nothing better.”

Mike pushed himself up onto the couch. “You sure, Richie? We can order in. I don’t mind.” He grabbed a tissue from the box on the coffee table and blew his nose.

Richie shook his head. “No, it’ll do us both good, besides, I’m done wasting time. I’m probably gonna develop a whole new complex, but I don’t care. I want to get pizza with you right now, because, I, maybe Pequod’s will suddenly close and you’ll never get to try it. Or one of us will, actually no, I’m not going to go there—I’ve had enough of that, but I’m done wasting time.”

Richie went into his room and changed into a t-shirt and jeans and a zip-up hoodie and put on a fresh pair of socks and a pair of chucks. He and Mike went out for pizza and talked about normal things that friends talked about: movies they liked, actors they thought were hot, their mutual dislike of sports, contemporary literature, whether they would prefer to fight a horse-sized duck or 100 duck-sized horses. The last topic was much more contentious than either of them had ever imagined it would be.

Richie knew this was just a respite and that he needed to call his therapist and actually start going again and maybe start meditating or something and go back on Lexapro and definitely stop taking Ambien for a bit, but he was pretty sure now that he wasn’t going to be miserable for the rest of his life.

And that night he fell asleep quickly and slept soundly, and he dreamed, but in the morning all he could remember was that there had been Eddie, and there had been a turtle. And when he got up and went into the kitchen, Mike was there with coffee and pancakes and eggs. And maybe the worst part about all this was how he’d tried to go back to that empty middle life even though he didn’t have to, and that even though he felt like he’d lost everything, he’d only lost one thing, one giant fucking thing, but not everything.

This shit was complex as fuck—Richie didn’t want to waste time worrying about it, but he knew that the time he took to figure it out would be time well-spent. But first he was dragging Mike with him to Mattress Firm.

*

Richie got off the plane at LaGuardia and made his way to baggage claim. Things were running smoothly so far—all his credit cards worked, his ID was still valid, he had access to all his bank accounts, and autopay on his rent and utilities was still set up. He had googled himself and the internet was suspiciously quiet about his disappearance. It was like he had left the country on a planned hiatus for six weeks, rather than having spent that time dead in a sewer. Had there really been no funeral? Were his parents completely in the dark about everything? Richie continued to add things to his list of stuff he wasn’t worrying about because Maturin had probably taken care of it already.

On the flight, Richie had read through the Losers Club group chat from the past six weeks to get up to date. Bev and Ben were “taking things slow” while her divorce went through, though it seemed like he was spending every spare second with her at her new place. Mike was still stateside driving around the south and had just spent Mike Week at Stan’s in Atlanta. Patty had come with Stan to Derry and was taking things extremely well—turns out she was obsessed with true crime podcasts and science fiction novels and had been in JROTC in high school? Convenient. Bill was in LA with his wife, who he had told about everything. Richie couldn’t really get a read on how that was going. And Eddie was in New York with _his_ wife. Eddie did not use the group chat as much as the other Losers, so Richie couldn’t tell how that was going either. Hopefully poorly.

Sometimes someone would post something that reminded them of Richie or something they thought Richie would like, or they would just say that they missed him. It was nice but also sad. Richie knew what it was like to be on the other side of that and it sucked.

Eddie did post a lot of “Remember when Richie…” sorts of things, compared to any updates about his own life, so that was promising. Going off the group chat, everyone obviously missed Richie, but it looked like Eddie missed Richie the most. For instance, this one from a month ago:

  * **Edward Spaghetti, Esq.:** I found the mixtape Richie gave me the day I moved away, but I’m pretty sure I never listened to it since I forgot all about it as soon as I left Derry
  * **Edward Spaghetti, Esq.:** Weird I kept it all this time but
  * **Edward Spaghetti, Esq.** : And of course I don’t have a tape player anymore, so I bought one today, in the year 2016
  * **Edward Spaghetti, Esq.** : I’ll make it into a spotify playlist so all you fuckers can cry along with me. Anyone else cry all the time now, or is it just me? *laughing emoji* *laughing and crying emoji* *three crying emojis in a row*
  * **Ben Handsome:** Not just you



Or this one from last week:

  * **Edward Spaghetti, Esq.:** Does anyone else remember how Richie would show up in the middle of the night and throw rocks at your bedroom window until you would let him in?
  * **Micycle** : Pretty sure that was just you
  * **Edward Spaghetti, Esq.:** Really?
  * **Stan the Man** : lol @ the idea of anyone else putting up with that nonsense
  * **Edward Spaghetti, Esq.:** hmm



After six weeks of being depressed as fuck, Richie’s brain was currently flooded with endorphins, and every thought was tinged with a bit of optimism. Now that he remembered everything and remembered Eddie so clearly, and seeing how Eddie was coping with Richie being gone, Richie was pretty sure that his feelings for Eddie were reciprocated in some way. If he told Eddie everything, worst-case scenario would be something along the lines of, “Sorry, Richie, I love you more than everyone else in the world except for my wife, who I am currently married to, and I do not have plans to change that, since I am straight and have not once ever questioned that in my entire life, even when we were thirteen and spooning in a hammock.” And Richie could deal with that. Probably.

It was possible that Myra was great and that she and Eddie were perfect for each other. He knew next to nothing about her, but he seriously doubted it, but maybe. And if she wasn’t everything that Eddie deserved, Richie would homewreck the shit out of that marriage like no homewrecker had ever homewrecked before. Sure, he might destroy his and Eddie’s relationship in the process, but at least there would be an emotional catharsis. Plus, Eddie always forgave Richie any time he ever did anything.

Richie allowed himself to entertain these thoughts because he knew he would chicken out before ever doing anything that awful, but for fucking sure would he fantasize about it. And even though he was prepared to be the Angelina to their Brad and Jen, he should find out for certain whether Eddie was even a little gay for him, if only for strategy’s sake. But Richie remembered the mixtape Eddie had exchanged with him the day Eddie left Derry; it had “Space Age Love Song”, “Friday I’m in Love”, “Love Shack”, and “I Wanna Dance With Somebody” on it, and no sixteen year old boy would put those songs on a mixtape for their platonic BFF. Eddie might not have realized what he was doing, but he still did it.

Thoughts of exactly how he would seduce Eddie, depending on the circumstances Richie found him in, filled the time while he waited for his uber and sat in the car as he was chauffeured through Brooklyn. Richie was lucky that Bev had a housewarming party in this universe as well his original one and shared her address in the group chat, because she did not end up in the same apartment here. In his original universe, she had landed in Chelsea. She wanted to find a place in a fun neighborhood that wouldn’t have women with Birkin bags pushing each other off sidewalks in a show of dominance. Richie had listened to that episode of _Planet Money_ , and according to Bev, it was all too real. Williamsburg might be gentrified to shit now, but it didn’t have an Hermès, or at least he didn’t think so.

It was three o’clock in the afternoon by the time Richie’s uber pulled into the loading zone in front of Bev’s building, and he got out and grabbed his bag from the trunk. The building was an old brownstone on the corner of a quiet-for-NYC intersection. The brick looked like it was in good shape and the windows were clean, and from the look of the lobby through the window in the front door, it had been renovated recently. Bev was a smart cookie, and while Tom ran the company with her, she was the majority stakeholder and had convinced the board to help her buy out his shares, or something like that. Richie didn’t know how any of that business garbage worked, just that Bev was still rich and Tom could suck it.

Richie stood in front of the callbox for a good minute before working up the nerve to even look for her name in the directory. He clicked through, but she wasn’t listed. He double-checked his phone to see if he had the right address and, no, this was it. He decided to go through the whole directory just in case, and he came across a listing for “Embers, J.” Who could that possibly be?

On the ride in, he had come up with a few options for what to say that would convince her that he was really himself and that she should let him in, or come downstairs to see him, or meet him in a neutral zone with lots of people around at a prearranged time and place. He figured as proof he could send her a photo that showed that he had a regular mouth and not a giant one with a throat full of teeth, and then make a dick joke to prove he was still Trashmouth, or maybe do a Voice or tell her something about her only he would know, of which there were a few things.

He rehearsed a few options, but now he was just stalling, since he had no idea how she was going to react or what she was going to say. He was going to have to improvise, which was not something he had done much of since leaving the Second City touring show in 2003. And honestly, he wasn’t sure if she was even at home right now. She had posted this morning in the group chat with a photo from a nearby café of latte art of a cat floating in an innertube. That was hours ago, but it was Saturday, so she could be running errands or at yoga or taking a glass-blowing class or whatever rich New Yorkers did on their days off.

But then, from somewhere behind him, he heard Bev laugh, and he heard Eddie— _Eddie_ —say, “Bev you knew going into today that I wouldn’t be able to pull off streetwear, you did that on purpo—oh fuck.”

Richie turned around. Bev and Eddie were standing on the corner, both obviously shocked, then Bev screamed and ran at him and he flinched, not expecting the hug that he got. “Oh my god, Richie, I didn’t think it was real, but you’re here, oh god.” She pulled back and put her hands on his face. Her eyes were wet but her face had the biggest grin on it. She laughed and pressed her face to his chest, and Richie finally came to his senses enough to hug back.

“Let me guess, Maturin told you I was coming,” he said, exasperated. Fucking turtle be praised.

She pulled back again, and ran her hands over his shoulders, as if checking for broken bones. “Yeah, last night, I dreamed it, that, oh!” She pulled away and turned. They both looked at Eddie, who was standing, propping himself up with one hand against the brick. He looked confused and honestly pretty wrecked. He opened his mouth, then closed it and swallowed heavily. Richie took a step toward him. Fuck, he was going to fuck this up, but this already was so fucked up, and Eddie was there, right there, and alive and what the actual fuck was he wearing.

“Eds, I know you’ve probably been having a hard time, I get it, but your midlife crisis doesn’t have to include joining the Russian mob, no matter what Bev says.” Seriously, a red Adidas tracksuit? What was even happening right now. Eddie looked fucking hot in it, but Jesus Christ. He kept walking toward Eddie, who was now looking more like himself. “Besides, a hot dish of spaghetti like yourself, makes more sense to join the Italian mafia.”

Eddie wiped at his eyes with his free hand. “Rich, if you do your Italian Guy Voice right now, I’m going to lose it.”

Well. “ _Buon giorno, Eddie Spaghetti, eez-a so good-a to see you._ _”_ It really was, though, and Richie started tearing up. “ _Let_ _’sa go get a pizza margherita_ —” and his voice broke, and he laughed a wet laugh, and Eddie laughed, and Eddie was crying and so was Richie, and Eddie closed the gap and in two steps had Richie in his arms, and Richie put his arms around Eddie and one hand went to the back of Eddie’s neck. Eddie pressed his face into Richie’s neck and Richie pressed his face into Eddie’s hair.

Richie had no idea how long they stood together like that, but it was long enough that Bev felt she needed to intervene. “Hey, guys, let’s bring this inside, okay?” It had started to rain, but neither of them had noticed.

They let go of each other at the same time, and wiped their faces with their respective sleeves, but then Eddie grabbed Richie’s arm like he wasn’t quite ready to let go just yet, and Richie put his hand over Eddie’s and Eddie smiled brightly up at him. Bev grabbed Richie’s bag and opened the door and held it open so they wouldn’t have to let go of each other, and Richie was going to nominate Bev for sainthood, however that was done.

All Richie could think about was Eddie’s hand in his, so he didn’t really notice the elevator ride up to the fifth floor or going inside Bev’s place or sitting down on the loveseat, he and Eddie still arm in arm, but that’s where they ended up.

Richie was starting to suspect that he had, in all his wildest dreams and fantasies about this moment, somehow been playing it safe. Eddie was freaked out for sure, but he was looking at Richie like Richie was his lover of many years gone off to war, who had been missing in action and presumed dead, but then showed up after years and years of waiting. By Jove, Richie was utterly unprepared for this. It was awesome, but what the fuck was going on? And now, Bev was setting three cups of tea and a bottle of whiskey on the coffee table, and how had there been enough time to boil water? Maybe she had one of those fancy hot water faucets in her kitchen.

Bev squeezed in next to him on the love seat. There wasn’t really enough room for three grown adults, and there was a big blue sectional just across the room, along with an Eames chair with matching ottoman, but obviously he had been sorely missed, so he’d put up with it. He reached out and put his arms around the two of them and sunk back into the seat cushion. They sat like that for a minute, until Eddie broke.

“Okay, so what the fuck is going on? Bev, did you really dream that Richie was coming here? What, fucking what? And a Marine told you? That doesn’t make any sense. Richie, and, how did you get out of—we had to—fuck.” Eddie cut himself off and rubbed his face with both hands and massaged his temples.

Richie sighed. “Okay, um, well.” Richie paused to collect himself. “I’m from a different universe that split off from this one at some point? I didn’t die there, so the turtle—Maturin—who created, um, everything, brought me over here, since this was the easiest one to fix, because apparently there were four possible outcomes, but there wasn’t one where none of us died, but this one it was just me who died? I don’t really remember. He told me all this last night in a dream. Or a vision? Does that make any sense?”

Eddie eyed him warily, “So, you’re saying you’re not my Richie?”

Richie scoffed. “Not _your_ Richie? Like, the one different day he and I had between us makes me not _your_ Richie. Unless, did anything happen, like you and me, did anything—you know?”

Eddie looked surprised. “Oh, uh, no. Well, we almost ran away together.”

“Oh, we almost did that, too! But then Bev told us that if we did that we would—”

“Die, yeah.” Eddie interrupted. “What about, did we do the scary closet with the dog?”

“Yes!” Richie exclaimed. “And, um, did I tell you that I thought you were brave? That you were braver than you thought you were?”

“Yeah, sort of. I was freaking out, and I said something about how I was too scared or wasn’t brave enough,” Eddie said, subdued. “And you said that the only time someone could be brave was when they were afraid, which I thought was really profound until, like, two days ago, when I found out it’s a quote from _Game of Thrones_.” Eddie laughed. “Have you ever said anything original in your entire life?”

“Oh, you haven’t noticed the teleprompter that follows me around all the time? That’s good.”

Eddie snorted. “Okay, well, I think that’s all the important stuff.” He sighed. “I guess you didn’t get caught in the deadlights in your universe, then.”

“No, I did. But you got me out.” Richie replied.

“I did?” Eddie said, his voice small.

“Yeah, you threw, uh, Bev gave you a spear? And you threw it at him, when he had me. You got IT good.”

“I gave it to Stan,” Bev said. “And he used it before that. He needed it before we even got to the bottom of the cavern.” Bev got up and grabbed the bottle of whiskey. She opened it and took a pull, then handed it to Eddie, who also took a pull, then coughed like he wasn’t used to doing that, which he probably wasn’t, and leaned further into Richie’s side. “When the deadlights had you, Eddie started laying into Pennywise, to distract IT, and Stan joined in and somehow, that made IT smaller. We think what happened was,” she sat back down and took a drink of her tea, gathering her thoughts, “we made Pennywise feel small and afraid and that IT believed IT was small because we started to believe it, but we just knew it was working, so we all started yelling at IT and calling IT names. But you were still floating, so when we killed IT, you fell, and we tried to catch you, but you hit your head. You were, you, it was instant.” She sat back down next to Richie and kissed him on the temple and ran her fingers through his hair, making sure his skull was really intact.

“Ouch,” Richie said. Understatement. “That’s pretty close to how we killed IT where I’m from. And then the cavern started collapsing and you had to leave me there?” Bev and Eddie nodded, looking guilty. “It’s okay, Eddie and I are even, then, I guess.”

“What do you mean?” Eddie asked. Oh, right. They hadn’t even gotten close to that part.

“Well, um,” Richie said, his arms drawing around himself. He stared deeply into his teacup. Bev had put a slice of lemon in hers and Eddie’s but not his. It was nice that she remembered that he didn’t like citrus. “So, in my universe, I fell out of the deadlights—I wasn’t that high up—but Eddie wanted to make sure I was alright, and he was pretty sure he had killed IT, but IT, wasn’t—” Richie stopped to wipe his nose with his sleeve. “Ugh, okay, you’re right here, you’re alive, you’re fine, I’m fine, it’s fine, well IT’s not fine, IT’s dead—“

“Richie,” Eddie said, stopping him from blabbering on nonsensically. Eddie turned Richie’s face toward him with one hand. “Hey, look at me.” Richie did.

“Why are _you_ crying?” Richie asked.

“I cry all the fucking time now.” Eddie sniffed, and Richie used his sleeve to wipe the tears off Eddie’s cheek. “Ugh, gross, you dickwad, I saw you wipe your nose with that sleeve. There is a box of tissues on the coffee table. If you give me pink eye, I will never forgive you.” Richie smiled. Was there a sweeter sound in the universe than Eddie ranting about anything?

“Speaking of you crying all the time, I saw you found that mixtape I made for you. What did you think of it?”

Eddie let out a weird laugh-sob. “I love it.” Now he was blushing. Nice segue, Richie. Good job. At that moment, Bev started giggling like something very funny had just happened. Richie and Eddie turned to look at her. “Um, care to share with the class, Beverly?” Eddie asked.

“Sorry, sorry,” she said between giggles. “I just remembered something. It’s, um,” she gave Richie a look, “nothing important. It would take too long to explain, and I am obviously emotionally exhausted.” Beverly did not look exhausted in any sense. In fact, she looked positively sprightly. She was up to something. “Richie, Eddie’s staying in my guest room, and I do have a Murphy bed set up in my office, but I don’t have any bedding for it yet, so one of you can take the couch, or you could just share. You did that all the time when we were kids, right?” Oh, okay, that’s what she was doing. “Oh, I’m getting ahead of myself, we should tell the others. I’m sure they’ll all want to come right away to see you.” She grabbed her phone. “Here, I’ll take a video and send it to the group chat.” She pointed the selfie camera at herself and began to record. “Hi, guys, oh, fuck, I don’t know what to say.” She stopped recording and turned to Richie and Eddie.

“I stood outside your apartment for fifteen minutes trying to figure that out, and I make all my money by talking too much,” Richie said.

“Okay, I’ll just say whatever, then.” She started filming herself again. “Hi, guys. Crazy day. Um. So this is all real, and—”

“It’s really real, guys!” Eddie yelled.

Bev laughed. “See, Eddie corroborates. That will be important in a sec.” She looked back at Richie but kept the camera on her face. “Sorry, I’m totally at a loss. I guess just see for yourself.”

She turned the camera to point at Richie, who crossed his eyes and said, “Hello, Losers! Did you miss me!” in Pennywise’s Voice.

Eddie grabbed a pillow and smacked Richie in the face with it, and Richie laughed. “Fuck you, you fucking asshole!” He smacked Richie again, and Richie’s glasses fell off his face and onto the floor. “Oh, shit, sorry!” Eddie dropped the pillow and kneeled down to grab Richie’s glasses, then gently placed them on Richie’s nose. Richie giggled and Eddie sat down on the floor and leaned one arm on Richie’s lap and rested his face in his hand.

“I deserved that.” He looked up at Bev, who was still filming. “Also, you’re welcome, because I was going to do that joke in 27 years but now I’ve ruined it.” Richie frowned. “Can we still send that, or should we send something else? I can be serious.” Eddie scoffed. “No, really! This is important! I can be serious if I need to be.”

“I think it’s perfect,” Bev said, then pointed the camera back at her face. “So yeah, Richie’s alive. He’s at my apartment. Obviously, he’s the real deal. Everyone come here ASAP. You’re all welcome to stay. Lemme know when you’re getting here!” She stopped recording and a moment later, Eddie and Richie’s phones pinged. Thirty seconds later, Bev’s phone began to ring. She answered it. “Hi, babe…yup, I know!…Oh sorry, I’m getting another call…”

This went on for another few minutes, with Bev alternating among various Losers on the phone. Richie took his phone out of his pocket and opened the group chat and wrote. “LOSERS STOP CALLING BEV. AND DON’T CALL ME OR EDDIE EITHER. JUST SHOW UP TOMORROW AND WE WILL EXPLAIN EVERYTHING AND THEN WE WILL PPAAAARRRTTAAAAAYYYYY. *confetti emoji*x3 LOVE ALL OF YOU!!!!”

  * **Stan the Man:** Patty’s already looking at flights. If the two of you have been duped by another magical entity and are leading us all to our deaths, I’m going to be pissed.
  * **Richie:** MY DICK IS A MAGICAL ENTITY. *side eye emoji* *eggplant emoji* *sparkle emoji*
  * **Stan the Man:** So we’re clear, I did not miss you.
  * **Ben Handsome:** I missed you Richie! I was already planning to come to Bev’s place this weekend, so I’ll definitely see you tomorrow!
  * **B-b-b-bill:** If I can get a red-eye out of LA tonight, I’ll be there in the morning.
  * **Micycle:** in the middle of nowhere rn but I’ll figure it out. Love you, Richie!
  * **Richie:** <3 <3 <3



“Getting the band back together again.” Richie put down his phone. Everyone was dropping everything just to see him. These people, his friends, would do anything for him. He sighed and stared up at the ceiling. It had been a long day, and it wasn’t even five o’clock. He smiled at Eddie and gave in to the impulse to run his fingers through Eddie’s hair. Eddie hummed and closed his eyes in response. Richie stopped before something inappropriate could happen.

“Okay, I’m going to stop by Design Within Reach to pick up some things, and I need to call Jen and have her go to the grocery store and maybe Target so I can get this place ready,” Bev said, mostly to herself. “Oh, Richie, Jen is my assistant—you may or may not meet her this weekend. Anyway, I’m not having a repeat of my housewarming party. Richie, you wouldn’t remember this, but I threw a party here before I had any furniture at all, which I thought would be fun and cool but turned out to be uncomfortable and kind of awful, who would have thought?”  
  


“Yeah, actually, you did that where I’m from, too, just your place was in Chelsea.”

“Oh, I almost put an offer on that place, but I thought it might be too small. This place has less character, but I’ll be able to figure out sleeping arrangements for seven adults.” She paused. “Well, eight, now that you’re back.”

“Wow, Patty must be pretty great, for her to have replaced me in your mind so quickly.”

“She is. Wait, have you not met Patty? Never mind, we’ll talk about that later.” Bev started walking towards the hallway. “I’ll be back in a few hours. Text me if you need anything, but Eddie should know where everything is by now.” She turned around and walked back towards Richie and sat next to him on the couch and pulled him into a hug. “I love you, Richie.”

“Love you, too,” he said into her hair. He kissed the top of her head. “Go. Coordinate. Decorate. Um, adjudicate.”

“Did you say ‘adjudicate’ so you wouldn’t say ‘masturbate’?” He smiled guiltily. “Okay, bye.” And she got up and grabbed her purse and ran out the door.

He and Eddie sat like that for a few moments in silence. Richie wasn’t sure what to say or do so he just made a face at Eddie, who made a face back. “Okay, I need to pee. Where’s the bathroom?” Richie asked.

Eddie seemed surprised by the question. “Oh, yeah, it’s down the hall 2nd door on the right.” Eddie stood up to let Richie off the loveseat and went to sit on the big couch.

Richie used the toilet and washed his hands. He looked in the drawer for a comb and found one and ran it through his hair. He considered his face. He could probably use a shave, but his shaving kit was in his suitcase. Maybe there was a spare razor somewhere? He looked in the cupboard under the sink and found Eddie’s toiletry bag. It was definitely Eddie’s because it was monogrammed with his initials. Would Eddie mind if he used his razor? Then he realized he was stalling and went back into the living room.

Eddie was sitting on the far end of the couch looking at his phone. Richie flopped onto the chaise section of the couch. It was very comfortable, with soft velvet upholstery in royal blue. Richie toed off his shoes and they fell to the floor. He shifted to face Eddie and put one foot up on the couch, his knee sticking up in the air, where he rested one hand, and he propped himself up with the other arm. He probably looked like Fabio crossed with a chimpanzee but he didn’t care. “Hey,” he said, then winked at Eddie.

Eddie snorted. “Hey, yourself.” He huffed a breath and shook his head. “You look like a sexy giraffe.”

“So you think I’m sexy?” Richie wiggled his eyebrows.

“If I wanted to fuck a giraffe, maybe.” They made eye contact for a moment, then started giggling at the same time.

“Come here,” Richie said. Richie laid back and Eddie shifted so he was lying on his back along the main part of the couch with his head on Richie’s chest.

“Take your shoes off, you heathen,” Richie said.

“Oh, Jesus, ugh, sorry,” Eddie said as he toed off his shoes.

“Don’t apologize to me. Apologize to this very expensive fancy couch.” Richie reached along Eddie’s arm to grab his hand. Eddie laced their fingers together and brought Richie’s hand to his chest.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Eddie said, then brought Richie’s hand to his lips and kissed his knuckles. Jesus Christ. Richie had never been on the other end of this much tenderness before. Also, was this really fucking happening?

“I can’t believe I’m here, either.” Richie’s brain had short circuited, so when Eddie didn’t respond, he let themselves just lay together like that for a bit. Finally, he came to his senses. “So, um, how long have you been staying here with Bev?”

“Oh, right, you don’t know. Um, about a week.” Richie hummed in response and waited for Eddie to continue talking, but he did not.

“And what prompted the move? Correct me if I’m wrong, but I recall that you got married to a real human woman, so…”

Eddie sighed. “She is a real human woman. Her name is Myra. Um, we got married in 2009, so seven years. We’d been having problems before Derry, for a while, honestly, but after I got back, things got, well, I couldn’t, and we agreed it was time. So I’m staying with Bev until we sort out our shit. We had a prenup, and we make about the same amount of money so we’ll do a 50-50 split when our place in Queens sells, so it’s not that bad.”

“Well, it’s still a divorce,” Richie replied, and ran his free hand through Eddie’s hair. Man, that was fun.

“Yeah, well, like I said, long time coming.” Eddie sighed. “It’s mostly just weird.”

“Yeah, I guess it would be, being single again after so long.”  
  
Eddie scoffed. “Yeah, because that’s what’s weird about it.”

“Hey, I’m just saying, there are gonna be a lot of ladies hungry for spaghetti, especially if you’re gonna be walking around in these sexy track suits,” Richie said, being deliberately obtuse.

Eddie lifted himself up and turned so he could look Richie in the face, but without letting go of Richie’s hand. “Are you an actual idiot or are you being deliberately obtuse?”  
  
Richie raised his free hand in a protective gesture. “What? I’m just—”

“Were you in love with me? When we were kids?” Eddie was looking Richie right in the eye. Richie didn’t think he’d ever been the subject of such intense focus. Also, holy shit, what, already? He thought he would have a couple days to work up to this conversation.

“Okay, swinging right around to the big questions, then,” Richie said, stalling for time, overwhelmed.

“Yeah, well, George R. R. Martin taught me how to be brave, so I’m asking now. Were you? Because I was. And I think I still am. I didn’t really figure it out until, like, a month ago, but I’ve never loved anyone like I love you.” There was definitely some amount of fear in Eddie’s eyes, behind the determination, and that was what Richie had loved most about Eddie, really. If Eddie believed in what he was doing, if he thought it was important, he would do it no matter what he thought the consequences might be, no matter how scared he was. It was the same look he had every time he let Richie through the window into his bedroom late at night, knowing he would be in deep shit if his mom found out, but doing it anyway because he knew Richie needed him. It was probably the same look he had when he threw a spear at a killer clown from outer space.

At that thought, Richie started crying again, before he could say anything back. He pushed himself up so he was sitting upright and put his face in his hands. “Sorry, sorry, I just.” He took a shuddering breath and felt Eddie’s arms go around him. “You were dead, and now I’m here and you’re here, and it’s a lot.”

“I shouldn’t have sprung that on you tonight. I’m sorry,” Eddie said.

“No!” Richie pulled back to look at Eddie again. “No. That’s the best, that’s, Eddie. I’ve loved you for so long, I don’t even remember when I figured it out. It’s always been you. I love you.”

Eddie grinned. “No shit?”

Richie smiled back. “Yeah, no shit.” Richie leaned in and pressed his forehead to Eddie’s. “Hey, you don’t still think kissing is gross, do you?”

Eddie huffed. “Only a little,” he whispered. Richie took Eddie’s chin in his hand and tipped his head back, then pressed his lips to Eddie’s. It was a tender and inelegant kiss, since neither of them could really stop smiling long enough to really finesse it.

Richie pulled away first. “Hey, Eds?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Hey, Spaghetti Man?”

“Jesus Christ, what?”

“Can I give you a hickey?”

Eddie shoved him so he fell back on couch. “No! Absolutely not.”

“Aw, come on, just a little one?” Richie pleaded.

“No.” Eddie looked away. “You’ll do it somewhere everyone can see, and I don’t want anyone, well—”

“Oh, I see how it is, you want to hide our torrid love affair.” Richie switched into his Southern Belle Voice. “Oh, Eddie, Eddie, I love you, I do. Please let me show the world by giving you a hickey right here.” He grabbed Eddie and pulled him in to kiss his neck, right on his pulse point. When he was sixteen, Richie had thought a lot about where exactly he wanted to mark up Eddie’s body, and that spot was #3 on his top-ten list. He didn’t actually want to annoy Eddie in that moment, so he didn’t try anything, as tempting as it was.

Eddie laughed. “Stop it, ugh. I just thought it would be nice to have this ourselves for a bit. But everyone’s gonna be here tomorrow anyway, and Bev’s going to figure it out right away.”

“I think Bev already figured it out, which is why she practically ran out of here before.”

“Ah, yeah, that makes sense. She’s great.” Eddie adjusted himself so he was lying next to Richie on the couch, side by side and pressed up close. Richie decided he wanted to be both the big and little spoon, so he slid down so he was lying on his side with his head on Eddie’s chest with Eddie’s arm around him. Richie bent his knees and Eddie lifted up his legs and put them over Richie’s so Eddie’s feet were flat on the couch. It was an organized tangle, worthy of them both.

Richie and Eddie ended up lying like that for a while, talking nonsense and gently joking around. When Bev walked in, Richie yelled, “Hey, Bev, guess what! We’re in love!” and Bev shrieked and dropped her shopping bags and looked at them soppily when she saw how they had arranged themselves. Bev was as unsurprised as she was happy for them, though she did admit that she thought it would take at least a few days to figure themselves out.

Later, they all went out for pizza at Bev’s favorite place, and Ben changed his flight so he showed up in the middle of dinner and he really should have known better because he started crying as soon as he saw Richie, and Richie was in the middle of a bite of pizza when he got up to hug Ben and Richie started awkwardly semi-choking on a particularly stringy bit of mozzarella and everyone thought he was joking but he really wasn’t, but he ended up coughing it up fine without help. He was a little offended that everyone would think he would make that joke at that moment, but then again, the whole “too soon?” thing was actually a bit from his first broadcast comedy special, so.

Later, in the middle of the night, hours after they had all gone to bed, Richie woke up with a start, suddenly terrified that everything that happened the day before had been a dream, but he reached out and Eddie was right there, and Eddie reached back even though he was still asleep, and Richie’s heart was about to explode so he settled back under the covers. He needed to be well-rested, after all, because that night they were gonna party like it was 1990.

**Author's Note:**

> I saw IT Chapter 2 on September 7 and I have been back on my bullshit ever since. I had barely even read any fic in the past 5 years and hadn't written any in 10, so, yeah. I blame Bill Hader. 
> 
> This was originally going to be my submission for the upcoming Reddie Big Bang, but then it ballooned like crazy and I knew I'd be too impatient to wait to post until April. Fic is still a WIP but is fully mapped out.


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